Thrice a Mother
by KNS
Summary: She's had three kids, all of them unplanned. Starbuck's POV.


Thrice a Mother

By KNS

Disclaimer: If you recognize any person/place/thing, then it's not mine. To be safe, let's just say nothing is mine.

Bytheways: Ten years later and here we are again. We're grateful to the betas (as always.) I claim all mistakes. This piece takes pieces from S1-3; you have been warned :-)

Some things are not  
meant to be found  
if you find them you  
lose them again if you  
find them you lose them  
don't look for them you  
will only find them  
~ Grace Paley ( from "I Went Out Walking")

She's had three children, all of them unplanned. No surprise, really, since she'd never ever wanted kids. Once or twice the idea crossed her mind, but she refused to let herself think about it. The best thing – the only thing – she can do is not let herself think about things too much.

Thinking = bad.

She has no idea who the father(s) might be. She likes men and men like her. They're a good distraction; mixed with a little booze, they made a great distraction. So the list of paternal suspects is long. Doesn't matter. Knowing her own father certainly never improved her life. (Except when it did.)

And three brats? How many would she'd've ended up with if she'd actually planned for some?

Thinking = bad.

Her firstborn is a boy. A son. She's pretty happy about that. Those girls – not a chance. Once upon a time she was a girl, so she knows exactly what kinda trouble they can be. Nope.

His name is Boxy. Who the hell would name their kid that? But he'll be a pilot one day, a viper pilot, and then he'll get a new name. Something flashy, sharp, something no one'll ever forget. She's already got a few in mind.

Boomer brought Boxy to her safely. All the crazy, fraked up things goin' on, but Boomer brought her son to Galactica safely. Even chose him over Helo. She'll always love Boomer for that. Be grateful. That little girl who always spooched the landings gave her her son. Best gift ever (maybe.)

Her son is perfect. All moms think that, she knows, but Boxy really is. Her Prince. He follows her everywhere she'll let him. He'd crush himself into her locker if she didn't send him away now and then. Girl still needs some time to herself, even if she is mom to a perfect son.

Boxy's favorite uncle is Apollo. Not a bad choice, all things considered. But Lee better not teach her boy to think too much. None of that political shit, either. Her boy's going straight into the Fleet, and Lee better not try to frak that up. Apollo makes a pretty good uncle, though. Starting to show Boxy what's what on the male end of the life spectrum. There are just a few things about men she doesn't get, doesn't want to get, but Boxy might need to know. Maybe.

When her perfect son goes missing for a few hours, she finds him on the flight deck. Apollo has parked him in a viper. The Chief and Boomer are looking up from the base of the stairs, watching and grinning like two cats post-canary. They can teach her boy some stuff, too.

She doesn't think about Boxy when she's out among the stars, flying CAP or fighting raiders. No time or space for that, not out there. She's pretty sure if you think about something too much, you lose it. Thinking = bad.

Her perfect son dies an imperfect death. She knows it's because she's been thinkin' about him too much. Her fault and she knows it.

"But I'm gonna fly vipers, so you can't make me go," Boxy says defiantly, the last time she see him. "I'm gonna learn everything, 'cause I'm gonna be the best. Even better than you, Starbuck."

"Not a frakin' chance," she tells him, winks so he'll know she's kidding. Between her and Apollo, they can make it happen, make Boxy the best. And they will.

Except that they don't. Don't get a chance to.

Water riot. Her perfect Prince dies by accident, pushed off a catwalk while trying to snurtch water for a little girl. Another orphan, one without a Starbuck to play lookout. Her boy is brave, courageous – and very dead.

She can think about him all she wants, now. Gone's gone. But still: thinking = bad.

When there's space between this and that, between one crisis and the next, she takes her few minutes to crawl into a solitary shadow with a bottle of booze. She drinks the whole thing, cries cries cries until there's just nothing left.

She'll never cry over a kid again.

And she's definitely not havin' any more sons.

She's estranged from her middle child, her first girl. Or, they'd be estranged if there was space enough to get away from each other. They have to settle for ignoring each other's existence.

Her third kid's another girl. Another frakin' girl. Must be some kinda justice from the universe. Mom always said payback's a bitch.

Oh, but her third child is beautiful. Kacey. All smiles and sunshine, even in this little hell-cell of a house. Despite this little hell-cell of a house. Little girl's everything kind and gentle in the entire universe, the whole of existence. Sanity and imagination.

Her firstborn was a prince, her last one is Sunshine. Not the holocaust nuked-out fallout sunshine that's all that's left on Caprica. The kind that breaks through soft rain, makes light splinter into its primary colors. True and real – and so fragile.

In another world, another life, another time, she might've been like her last child. But Kacey's kinda beauty and potential was smacked out of her when she was young, too young, and all they have in common now is their curls and mischievous eyes. Her girl has her smile, too. Or, what her smile used to look like, when she used to know how to smile.

Her Sunshine is beyond perfection. Her little Sunshine might actually be one of the Gods. No, not maybe – for sure.

And for a God, her little Sunshine, she'll do anything. Anything. Betray herself and every little piece of sanity she's managed to strangle-hold. Tell a daemon exactly what he wants to hear, then turn her back to a wall so she can slaughter the daemon one more time.

Galactica – safety for Kacey. But her last child isn't really hers, was never hers – just one more fraked up lie told by a toaster madman. In one instant she looses: everything. Gone. Poof, just like that.

Sunshine deserves something better than her, anyway. Really, she's always known the girl isn't anything like her. Really, she has. And that's for the best. Really, it is.

She sends her last child back, away. Doesn't cry, fight, protest in any way. Keeps her mouth shut, eyes unfixed into nowhere. Does her very very best to act like everythin' is just fine.

Thinking = bad.

No flinching. Just like her own second mother had advised her.

Absolutely not – she's not doing this anymore. Sends Sam away. Shuts the Old Man out. Informs Lee he can go frak himself whenever he likes. Takes a knife and butchers her own soul out of her body. The end.

Funny how only Tigh understands.

Thinking = bad.

But she can't forget the feel of Sunshine, what it was like to have a tiny sliver of golden warmth cradled against the horror of an awful life.

She wants her last child to stay perfect: learn poetry, art, how to play the piano. Know what music tastes like, what it smells like when the rain finally ends.

She lets her last child go.

Her middle child is the only one she gets to see become an adult. Firstborn girl. Pain in the ass from the minute they meet.

And it's like looking in a mirror.

Kat looks just like Starbuck. Different size, coloring, hair. But other than that. . . Same hands, sharp eyes, smart-ass mouth. All the important things.

She suspects that's why Apollo likes her middle child so much. Lee: friend/brother/lover/whatever. And he likes her kid more than he does her. Lee never did make good choices (she knows that for sure.)

They'd be estranged, if there was room for that here. But there isn't. They settle for ignoring each other's existence. Except when they can't.

Everyone makes at least one drastic mistake in their lives. Kat is hers. Little bitch thinks that the entire universe belongs to herself. Better shot, better pilot. Doesn't know when to stop talking or pushing limits.

Like mother, like daughter. Might be funny, if it wasn't so damn annoying.

Inside and out. . . She remembers being Kat's age. Except that she hadn't been constrained by war (or one ship.) Once or twice she'd gone looking for trouble in a bar, picked a fight with the biggest guy she could find, fought him and his buddies all by herself. She'd consistently lost, done it again anyway. Once or twice she'd made bets with friends to see who could rack up the most charges in a day, and end up spending the least amount of time in hack. She'd frequently lost, done it again anyway. Hell, once she'd even fraked around with her boyfriend's brother while her boyfriend was drunk off his ass not twenty steps away.

She still has more guts than her second kid. Always would, too. Too late for the brat to catch up now, no matter what. Girl should know better than to even try.

It irritates the hell out of her that Kat's become Apollo's new pet. Mr. Thinks Too Much is doing it on purpose, trying to piss her off. It's working. Kat more than plays the part, is practically his second shadow. Old Man says the girl is gold, too. Her second child has mostly stolen her family away from her.

Mother still knows best. Kat fights fair by default, even when the girl isn't trying to. She doesn't. Any idea of fighting fair was beaten out of her right after she learned to play the piano. Fighting to win – winning – that's all that matters. Sam wouldn't agree; neither would Lee. Or Helo or the Old Man. Roslin would, and does.

Roslin never says Kat's name. In those little pieces between wake and sleep, sometimes she thinks how much Roslin is like Cain. President and Admiral. They'd hated each other – and she's like both of them. And Kat isn't. She's proud of that much, at least. She's managed to keep somethin' for herself.

As it turns out, though, her second child fraks up as much as she does. Maybe – maybe even more. The taste of victory is better than the best booze.

Throwing her girl's secret out is so sweet. And satisfying. To have something, anything, to hurl against the little brat is spectacular. To have the secret be truth – beautiful, just beautiful. Her second born lied, lied to even get a chance at this life; now it's time to pay up.

She's not the only one who does stupid things to make up for mistakes. Crazy brave things that leave other shaking their heads at the sheer magnitude of audacity. Acts to save others, since neither mother nor daughter can save themselves.

Her second child, her firstborn girl, is the only one she gets to see become an adult. Her oldest girl is also the only one she gets to watch die. It's no kinda reward, no kinda victory. It feels like nuclear darkness, a night without stars, and no pure morning to come. No Prince to adore her, no Sunshine to keep her warm. Just mirrors and things that can't be changed.

So small and fragile on that hospital bed, Kat says, "Starbuck, I'm really cold."

"Always whining about something," she returns, winks so the girl will know she's joking. It'd be easier if the girl cursed her, wished her dead – but her girl fights fair, even when the fight's almost over. Helplessness: worse by far than any other feeling, even guilt. She lays her father's paint-stained jacket over Kat's feet.

And then she runs, because she just can't watch.

She's been to the Death Walls many, many times. Has always done her best to go alone, when there's no one to see. Other people call the photos a memorial, the Remembrance Walls. She knows better.

Kat's a damn good pilot. Not the only thing Kat does good, of course; her girl's very talented. Might have some talents for the arts, even. Poetry or music. Something beautiful and fine and finite. But mostly – a pilot.

One picture is all she has of her girl, her young pilot. Straight and proud, an arrogant little grin, cocky as hell: that's her girl in the photo.

It's not fair or right, she knows, but – she loves her second child the most. No apologies.

No tears. And no letting go.

Just a photo pinned to a wall.

She hears the hatch open behind her. She knows it's Lee. She knows what he's going to say.

[end]


End file.
